


fuck rum!

by earthbellamy (samssalvation)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Christmas, Christmas Party, Drunk confessions, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5317259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samssalvation/pseuds/earthbellamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is avoiding the Christmas party.<br/>Bellamy brings a little of the party to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fuck rum!

**Author's Note:**

> what a bunch of needless christmas fluff

“I fucking hate Christmas.”

A hand reached over and knocked Clarke lightly on the chin, bringing her eyes up to meet those of Special Agent Blake, who was sitting, cup of hard eggnog in hand, on the corner of her desk. He tipped it at her in greeting. “Not very festive of you, Griffin. Have a drink.”

Clarke glared at him, then shoved him off her desk with one hand and grabbed the folders he had been sitting on. The eggnog came dangerously close to spilling. The chatter from the Christmas party in one of the briefing rooms down the hall filtered out over the precinct’s desks. Clarke’s was the only one occupied at the moment, a situation Blake seemed intent on resolving. “I’m finishing up a report.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

“Yeah, on Christmas Eve.” She set the file on the opposite side of the desk, flipped it open, and then looked her fellow agent dead in the eye. “Because fuck Christmas. And while we’re at it, fuck you.”

Blake put on an affronted air, free hand splayed against his chest as though Clarke’s words had physically hurt him. “What did I do?”

“For starters, you stole my drugs bust last week.”

Clarke had the feeling that he was at least slightly tipsy when he made an exaggerated “Pssh!” sound as his first counterargument. “That was just one bust. And it wasn’t even a big one.”

“Last month, you barged into one of my interrogations. In July, you stole a homicide I  _distinctly_  remember calling dibs on. And this morning, I caught you actually digging through my pendings to see if you could tag along on any of them.”

“Yeah, about the pendings box,” he said, gesturing at the plastic bin next to her laptop. “I mean, that’s gotta waste a lot of paper, Griffin. Don’t you care about the environment at all?”

She glanced at the stack of papers, then grimace and replied, “Fuck the environment too.”

She turned back to her laptop, which was why she couldn’t stop him from grabbing a packet of papers out of the pending box to look it over. Blake took a pensive sip of his eggnog, then made a noise in his throat and said, “Why isn’t Reyes helping you, at least? She’s your partner.”

“She is also very intent on getting some from Agent Jaha tonight.” And just as Blake was about to interject the necessary clarifying question, she added, “The one who works in our precinct, not his dad in Washington HQ.  _Obviously_.”

“I dunno, some women go for that. Men are like fine wine. We only get—”

“More acidic and less palatable with age,” Clarke interrupted, snatching the file out of his hands. “Yeah, no thanks.”

“There’s some pretty old rum in this—” a tilt of his cup “—and it’s doing wonders.”

“Why would you put a good rum in eggnog? Isn’t that a little wasteful?” Parodying Blake’s barb from before, she continued plaintively, “Don’t you care about quality rum at all?”

He grinned, then tossed the rest of the drink back and got to his feet. “Fuck quality rum.”

With a barely-perceptible wobble, he spun on his heel and headed back towards the Christmas party, leaving Clarke sitting at her desk alone surrounded by her paperwork.

She let out a heavy breath and reached up a hand to tug out the elastic keeping her hair from her face. She’d had it up all day, and her scalp was starting to hurt. It was moments like these when she liked to sit alone at her desk—the lights dimmed, the quiet thrum of the heaters by the windows and the howl of wintery gusts of wind outside the frosted panes her sole company.

At present, however, she wasn’t very happy with the situation. Leaving herself alone with her thoughts wasn’t the best course of action when she had recently been contemplating her feelings.

Specifically, her feelings concerning Special Agent Blake.

There was no doubt that he annoyed her to hell and back. It was a given. It had actually become a running gag around the precinct— _How do you think Blake’s gonna piss her off today? Five bucks says he deliberately leaves a coffee ring on her case file_. In a time of low funds, she’d even manipulated the odds and secretly convinced Blake to go fifty-fifty on a hundred dollar wager with their fellow agents that’d he’d spill the filling of a jelly donut right down her shirt and that she’d yell at him for at least fifteen minutes. She outdid herself with a straight twenty-one.

In spite of this, when not in the presence of other agents to egg them on, it was a different story. Late-night stake-outs with boxes of pad Thai and a CD of Depeche Mode’s greatest hits had made her question as of late how much of her supposed hatred—or at least extreme irritation—was based in her own feelings, and how much had been the result of circumstance.

Of course, her coworkers could never know. Not Wells, not Green, not even Reyes. And above all,  _not_  Blake.

Perhaps they didn’t hate each other entirely. Clarke might have even called him a friend, given broad enough parameters for the definition. But what she was considering—potentially having a crush on the guy—that was out of the question. He was chaotic, messy. One time, when Clarke had been working under him on a murder/suicide, he had  _literally_  thrown the rulebook out the window. It hit one of the squad cars and they couldn’t turn the alarm of for an hour.

She couldn’t like him. It just didn’t make sense.

She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that when a hand set down a mug of eggnog on her laptop keyboard in front of her, she jumped in her seat, knocking her head into what turned out to be Blake’s receding elbow. He took his seat on the desk again, one leg propped up and a renewed drink in his grip.

Clarke looked back at her screen to see that the mug had been pressing down the ‘m’ key and was currently filling her “Summary of Evidence” box with continuous lines of the character. She plucked it off and erased the contents of the box. Normally something like that would have made her chastise Blake for being an inconsiderate asshole, but when she glanced over to start in on him, she found him watching her with an odd look.

“What?” she demanded, bringing his gaze to hers. “Did I somehow get something on my face in the five minutes that you were gone for?”

Blake gestured at her hair. “You’ve got a bump. From your ponytail.”

Clarke’s hands instantly went to her hair, but he reached out and caught her wrist before she could try to smooth it down. A smile broke onto his lips. “It’s cute. I don’t think I’ve seen your hair down before.”

“You totally have. You’re just being an idiot.”  _On purpose_ , Clarke wanted to add, though he likely got her meaning from her tone.

“I’m always an idiot around you,” he replied, releasing her hand as he waved off her comment. “This shouldn’t surprise you anymore.”

Instead of gracing his answer with one of her own, Clarke took a sip of the eggnog. Her lips pursed. “A little strong?”

“I don’t know how you take it. I assumed the more the merrier.”

“I don’t think that applies to rum.”

“Just shut up and drink your damn nog.”

Smiling despite her troubled mind, Clarke did as he said, though she thought she might regret it soon. She rarely drank anymore, ever since her father had been killed by a drunk driver when she was in the academy. The drink, more heavily weighted towards the alcoholic side, lit a warmth in the pit of her stomach, and loosened her up perhaps more than was wise given her current emotional turmoil.

The good thing was that if she was starting to feel tipsy, Blake was already there. He set his mug down on the desk, avoiding her paperwork and carefully settling it on a coaster, though the mug was room temperature by that point. The thoughtfulness of the action stood out, and Clarke eyed him, wondering what he was playing at.

That was, if he had the capacity for subtlety at the moment. She had seen him flat-out drunk before (somehow, the case had required it at the time, but Clarke couldn’t remember it for the life of her) but never where he was now, some murky, blurry place in between where inhibitions fell free but thoughts stayed clear.

“How long have you worked here, Griffin?” he asked suddenly. He usually wore a suit and tie to work, but today, in expectation of the party, he had opted for a burgundy wool sweater that fit him snugly, leaving little to the imagination. Not that she, of course, needed to imagine anything. She had already seen what was under his shirt.

Now that she thought about it, her cases gave her a lot of weird and specific insight into Special Agent Bellamy Blake, and she wasn’t sure what to do with that insight.

“Two years. Which you are perfectly aware of.”

“I forgot. It seems like less than that.” He appeared to have something else to say, but it took him a while to figure out the words to it. Clarke waited to the sound of the heater thrumming, feeling content to just watch him for a moment or two—dangerous thoughts to have, perhaps, but Clarke could blame the rum. Finally, he went on. “Do you know what I thought when I first saw you come into the precinct, on your very first day?”

Clarke remembered her first day very clearly. “You probably thought something along the lines of, ‘Wouldn’t it be hilarious if I rigged the new recruit’s car siren to somehow play ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ instead of the siren noise so when she goes to chase down a perp for the first time, she actually rickrolls not only herself but everybody in a two-block radius?’ At least, that’s what I assume you thought, because that’s what happened.”

Blake winced—only half joking—and said, “I think you and I might have different views concerning the first day we met.”

“Care to elaborate then?”

Clarke half-expected a sarcastic comment, but instead she received a very serious look from her usually un-serious colleague. He shrugged, then said, “I thought you were possibly the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

Clarke’s heart thudded to a stop. From practice on the job, she managed to keep her surprise from her face, and instead teased, “Only ‘possibly’?”

In a slightly less-serious tone, Blake replied, “I have a special place in my heart reserved for Scarlett Johansson.”

Clarke nodded her agreement, still trying to break down what he’d said. He thought she was beautiful? How could she even reply to that?  _You’re beautiful too?_  It was true, but it didn’t make it sound any less stupid. She resolved for silence.

It was evidently a dumb move.

Blake noted her wordlessness, then got to his feet. He let out a heavy breath. “I just thought I should let you know that. It felt important.”

He moved to walk past her, head back into the Christmas party, back to the noise and company and bright lights. But he didn’t.

For a second, Clarke didn’t know why he’d stopped. Then she felt the pressure on her palm, and realized that it was her hand on his arm that had caused him to pause. She looked first at her hand, then up at him, only to find him looking down at her with dark eyes and quiet confusion.

She was more uninhibited than she had thought. Her tongue flicked out to lick her lips, but they still felt dry as she said, “As long as we’re confessing things, I should probably say something.”

“What?” His voice was soft, like he didn’t want to frighten away her response.

Again, she licked her lips. Then, in a rush, she said, “I might like you, like, as more than a colleague and more than friend, but I at the same time I feel like that could easily prove to be a really big problem, and we’re supposed to hate each other, but I don’t think I hate you and honestly if I had to choose a word I might even say I love you, which is ridiculous since I don’t even call you by your first name, but honestly I think I just might.”

There it was. The truth she had been trying to hide even from herself. In the back of her mind, a quiet voice said,  _Fuck rum!_

But the rest of her mind was too preoccupied with watching Blake— _Bellamy_ , she would insist on now, because the words were out there—for the minutest change in composure, anything to signal rejection or acceptance or even apathy. Perhaps she saw something and didn’t realize it, because between one blink and the next their mouths met. Clarke was half-way out of her chair, but it took only a second for Blake to pull her the rest of the way out and sit her down on the desk, on the piles of folders she had so neatly organized mere minutes ago.

Their lips were both chapped from the winter winds that howled outside, catching and dragging. Clarke felt a split in her lip followed by the sharp taste of blood, but she didn’t care. Bellamy’s tongue flicked out across the wound, then into her mouth, and the copper was soon lost in the taste of nutmeg and rum that lingered on their lips.

Her hands clung to him, pressed her close enough to feel his racing heartbeat through his sweater. They latched onto his shoulders as his hands came to rest on her hips, fingers catching on belt-loops to pull her closer. Files fell to the floor, papers spilling out and coming to rest under darkened desks.

It was chaotic, messy—just like him.

Their lips parted, just for a moment, foreheads resting against each other as they hastily caught their breaths. Clarke felt like laughing. Bellamy’s eyes went to the scattered paperwork, then back to her. “I could help you refile those. I know about your system.”

Clarke didn’t even look away. Her chest heaved and her lips were sticky and her hair was still a mess but she couldn’t bring herself to care, because honestly, something just felt  _right._  She shook her head, nose rubbing against his. “Fuck my system.”

She pulled his mouth back to hers, and felt him grin against her lips.

\-  -  -

The Christmas party went on, but Raven Reyes had different plans. No  _way_  was she staying in that stuffy room all night, especially not when her ticket out of there stood against the wall opposite. She nodded at Wells from across the room, and he smiled, eyes glinting as he excused himself from the conversation he was having with Monty about optimizing some face-recognition technique he’d been working on. Clarke had known that Raven planned to get some tonight. What she hadn’t known was how it would hardly be the first time she’d be getting it from Wells.

She crossed the room, meeting him by the door. He was wearing a god-awful sweater that she’d bought for the select purpose of wearing to the party—a reindeer with Christmas ornaments hanging from his antlers, covered in sequins and bright green thread.

“I certainly hope this sweater is doing something for you,” he said, noting her eyeing the outfit. “Because I’ll tell you this: if it isn’t, we’re burning it the moment we get home.”

“Well, I like it,” Raven replied.

Wells heaved a long-suffering sigh that was counteracted by the contented look in his eyes. “Then I guess it stays.”

“Not for long,” she said, toying with the hem of it. He caught her meaning and nodded his head towards the door.

She went over and pushed it open, stepping into the darkened hallway leading to the desk pit. Wells joined her, but she didn’t move yet. She heard something from that end of the hall, someone’s breathless whisper and the low murmur of a reply. Then, the sound of that reply cutting off in a joint moan.

It took less than a second for the pieces to fall together. Wells tried to keep walking, but she put a hand out to stop him and used the other to signal his quiet. Once he’d heeded her, she pointed down the hall. “Clarke and Blake.”

He started. “Bellamy and Griffin?”

They both crept forward, just far enough to see Clarke’s discarded shirt lumped on Bellamy’s (bland, by Raven’s standards) sweater, before Raven dragged Wells back into the conference room. The conversations around them hid Raven’s whispers.

“I can’t believe they’re doing it in the middle of the pit!”

Wells was more preoccupied with getting out his wallet. He placed a twenty in Raven’s palm. “I can’t believe you were right again.”

“What can I say? It’s a gift.” She’d bet him they’d do it by New Year’s, but she wasn’t surprised that the party brought it on a little sooner. “It must be all the sexy festivities.”

“Raven, there are literally no sexy festivities for Christmas. A fat guy comes down the chimney and gives out presents. It’s the opposite of sexy.”

Raven raised an eyebrow at him. “That sweater says otherwise.”

All plans of trysting now off the menu because of Clarke and Bellamy, Raven squeezed Wells’ hand and moved off to socialize further, not wanting to draw any attention to their break from the party.

Wells, on the other hand, stood rooted to the spot. He looked down at the hideous sweater, all sequins and sparkles and cotton fuzz.

Under his breath, he muttered, “I guess that means I’m never getting rid of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> posted [here](http://earthbellamy.tumblr.com/post/134036518249/co-workers-who-hate-each-other-but-you-drunk-too) on my tumblr  
> hope you liked it! :)


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